


rename the fallen human

by brushstrokesApocalyptic



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Nonbinary Chara (Undertale), Nonbinary Frisk (Undertale), a silly take on a game mechanic no one seems to have thought twice about, and a second chapter with more small angst!, basically every major character is here now but they only really get small roles, small angst near the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brushstrokesApocalyptic/pseuds/brushstrokesApocalyptic
Summary: The first name is accidental. They’re delirious with pain, probably-broken ribs crying out with every step they take, and it’s a wonder they even understand the question Asriel asks them. Their answer comes out mumbled and slurred, and he mishears it.“Chara, huh? That’s a nice name.”





	1. Chapter 1

The first name is accidental. They’re delirious with pain, probably-broken ribs crying out with every step they take, and it’s a wonder they even understand the question Asriel asks them. Their answer comes out mumbled and slurred, and he mishears it.

“Chara, huh? That’s a nice name.”

It’s so close to what they’ve always been called that it takes them hours to realise the mistake. It’s only that night, as Toriel is tucking them into a bed they don’t deserve, that they notice.

“Good night, Chara,” she says.

It’s a nice name, so much better than their old one, but their sleep-deprived brain has no filter to stop them from replying, “My name’s Claire.”

And Toriel blinks, looks surprised, then just smiles gently and nods. “Alright, then. Good night, Claire.”

In the morning, they wake up to find Asriel still curled up on the pillow nest he built next to his bed _(which he didn’t need to give them, really, they’ve slept on the floor before)_ and a delicious smell wafting in through the door.

They follow it into the kitchen, where Toriel is cutting up some sort of pie. She smiles when she sees them. “Good morning, Claire! You are up early, did you sleep well?”

They wince when they hear that name. “That’s not my name,” they blurt out, and then their brain catches up and points out that that directly contradicts what they said last night.

“Ah? I must have misheard you, then,” Toriel says, returning to the pie. It smells strange, like a mix of garlic and some meat they've never had before. “What is your name, then?”

They realize they hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Um, uh— Dawn.” _Nailed it._

“That is a beautiful name,” Toriel says, picking up a plate and serving up a slice of the pie. “How would you like some of my snail pie for breakfast, Dawn?”

“Snail?” they ask, taking the offered plate and sniffing at it. _That explains why I don’t recognize the scent._

“I wanted to celebrate your arrival with something sweeter, but the grocery store was all out of the ingredients,” Toriel says, tone apologetic even as the human brushes past her in their search for cutlery to eat with.

“It’s fine,” they say. “I like savoury food too.”

“That is good,” Toriel says. “Ah, do be careful, though! It is still rather hot.”

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

For a while, they let the monsters call them Dawn, and it’s fine. It’s a nice name, and it almost seems… fitting. The dawn of a new day, the rise of a new hope for monsterkind.

Then, three days later, when the Royal Family finally holds an announcement to officially reveal their presence, they are asked to introduce themself. And they panic. Stage fright can do a number on your brain’s ability to properly filter words, and so when the monster reporter asks them for their name it goes something like this:

_It was that one thing that does things in the sky, right? The thing that— it lives in the sky. Looks pretty. Uh…_ “Robin.”

They wonder what kind of face they’re making. Probably not one too much different from the face they were making before they had a catastrophic mouth failure, because the sentient rosebush continues with its questions like nothing is wrong. “Right, Robin, what are your thoughts on monsterkind as a whole? Are you, by any chance, a vanguard sent by a horde of invading humans who will descend upon the underground at any minute in a shower of dust and horror? When do you expect they will arrive?”

The human makes a face. “Uh, from what I’ve seen, you all seem pretty okay. I do not think I can make a judgement on the entire species just yet, but the Dreemurrs have been nothing but nice and, uh… patient, with me. What’s a vanguard?”

After the… they guess it was kind of a press conference, Asriel comes bounding up to them with wide eyes. “What was up with that?” he asks, grabbing onto their arm and hugging it as they step onto the elevator back up to their home. “I thought Dawn was a great name! Why’d you go and change it?”

“What can I say? I felt like something different today,” they say, but their mind is a little more occupied with something else. _He’s not angry or laughing at me for saying the wrong thing,_ they realize. _A little confused, sure, but accepting._

Sure enough, when dinner time comes and Toriel calls them in, there’s not a moment’s hesitation. “Asriel! Robin! Dinner is ready!”

And as the human wanders on down at a much more leisurely pace than Asriel, they wonder. _Just how far will this patience take me?_

 

* * *

 

 

“Robin, what do you think of—”

“Avery.”

“Huh?”

“My name’s Avery today.”

“What? But you just changed it!”

“...”

“Well, whatever. So anyway, Avery, check out this character—”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, Avery! Have you—”

“Actually, it’s Wolfgang.”

“...Very well! A bold name, to be sure. Say, speaking of which, do you see this flower?”

“It is very pretty.”

“It is. It actually has many names, one of which is wolfsbane!”

“Oh? What other names does it have?”

“Well, there’s monkshood, aconite…”

 

* * *

 

 

“Greetings, mother dearest! How are you on this fine day?”

“Ah, hello, Wolfgang! You seem in high spirits.”

“Actually, now I’m Aconite.”

“Ah? That is an original one, to be sure. Where did you get it?”

“Asgore was telling me about all the flowers in his garden! Did you know that lilies...”

 

* * *

 

 

Several weeks into their favourite game, the human comes striding up to Asriel with a spring in their step. The prince of monsters lifts his head, looks them in the eye, and sighs. “Okay, lay it on me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the human says, digging around in their pocket for the pack of labels they’d just bought an hour ago for this very idea.

“You’re going to tell me you’ve changed your name again to something totally different from your last one,” Asriel says, looking back down at his book. “You’ve been on a streak of gemstone names, so I’m guessing either Bloodstone or Diopside this time.”

“I have no _idea_ what you’re insinuating,” they insist, quickly scrawling something down before sticking the label to the front of their shirt. “By the way, check out this new accessory I got. Doesn’t it match my eyes perfectly?”

Asriel looks back up, squints, leans in. “...Hello, my name is… A-A-A-A-A-A?”

The human grins. “It’s actually pronounced—” They scream, as loudly as they can and with as much emotion as they can muster, for precisely six seconds. “—But I get the confusion.”

Toriel bursts into the room, trailing fire from her hands as she looks around wildly for what threat brought about such a response from her child. Asriel looks less than impressed. “Not very creative…?”

“Hey, what’s with that tone?” the human asks, leaning over him. Toriel finally gathers that it was just them being the kid that they are, and gives them a tired look. “Mom seems to think it was suitably upsetting!”

“I mean, you had to come up with something that’s definitely not a name sooner or later,” Asriel says. “I just thought it’d be a little better than screaming. That’s just a cheap jumpscare, not real horror.”

“I think you’re mixing up what you’re supposed to be criticizing here.”

“Nope.”

“...Well, I’ll show you _creative.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Murder.”

“That’s kinda on-the-nose, isn’t it?”

“...Mercy.”

“Still on-the-nose.”

“Jerry.”

“...Jerry.”

“...No, you’re right, that’s a terrible name. It’s uh, today I’m… Rose.”

_“Finally,_ that’s a _name.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, Pearl, are you ready? Do your creepy face!”

They lunge at their brother, eyes too wide and grin too sharp. He screams and falls backwards, laughing when he hits the ground. The human laughs with him, hand over their mouth, as he picks himself back up and looks at the video camera.

“Oh!” he says suddenly, voice dismayed. “Wait, I left the lens cap on!”

The human laughs harder, falling back on their ass. “Well, guess that ship has sailed!” they wheeze out.

“What?! You’re not gonna do it again?” Asriel asks. “C’mon, stop teasing me!”

They finally stop laughing as he clicks the camera off, catching their breath and tapping thoughtfully at their chin. “Hey, I’ve got a new horrible and dumb name today,” they say.

“Oh?” Asriel asks, taking the lens cap off and lifting the camera again to focus on the human.

“Yeah, it’s just the worst name ever made, just incredibly dumb,” they say, posing stylishly now that they’re being put on tape. “Just absolutely the worst.”

“What is it?” Asriel asks.

“I’m Asriel.”

Asriel lowers the camera to stare dead-eyed directly into their face. The intensity of his stare wears them down quickly, and they look away. “Okay, yeah, I’ll stick with Pearl.”

“You’d better,” Asriel says, fussing with the camera again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Greetings, my child! Have you thought up a new name for today?”

“Yeah!” the human chirps. “I was thinking Toriel sounds nice.”

“...Ah, perhaps you should think up your own name, my child?” Toriel suggests.

“Why?”

“Well, it would get terribly confusing. What if someone came asking for Queen Toriel, and confused you for me? You do not know how any of my royal duties work, it would be quite simply a disaster.”

“Oh, you’re right. Then… Cinnamon!”

“A lovely name, my child!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Dad.”

“Howdy, my child. What is your name today?”

“I’m Asgore.”

“You cannot.”

“...Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Mom, I’m hungry—”

“Greetings, Hungry, I am Toriel.”

The human can’t even finish their sentence. They were going to declare their name to be whatever food Toriel said they were having for lunch. Now they’re just lying on the floor laughing their ass off at the oldest joke in the book.

 

* * *

 

 

“Howdy, Bluejay! Smile for the camera!”

The human lifts their head, smiles sweetly, posing a little, and then they see that the camera lens is distinctly obscured. “Ha! This time I got you!” Asriel crows. “This time I left the lens cap on _on purpose!_ Now you’re smiling for nooo reason!”

They laugh a little. “Yeah, you got me. Hey, do you remember that one time we messed up that pie?”

Asriel blinks. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I remember. When we tried to make a butterscotch pie for Dad, but we were out of butter so we tried putting buttercups in instead?”

The human nods.

“Man, Mom was so mad,” Asriel says, sitting down next to them. “I should’ve just laughed it off like you.”

The human looks down at the camera. “Hey, is that still running? You should probably turn it off.”

“Huh? The camera? Okay—”

 

* * *

 

 

“...I don’t like this plan very much,” Asriel says.

“Come on, I changed my name for it and everything!” the human says. “Are you crying?”

“Wh-what? No I’m not!” Asriel says, rubbing at his eyes and sniffling. “Big kids don’t cry.”

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be a hero! We can set everyone free.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“You don’t think it’d fail, do you?”

“No!” Asriel blurts out. “I’d never doubt you!”

The human smiles.

Asriel smiles back, weaker. “I’ll go get the flowers.”

 

* * *

 

 

“My child, can you hear me…? We want you to wake up…”

“Buttercup! You can’t give up! You are the future of humans and monsters!”

 

* * *

 

 

When your soul has been absorbed into another creature’s being, there’s not very much you can hide from them. In the moment, perhaps, he has no reason to go prying— they have a plan to follow. The most he does is project a feeling of confusion, when the human stops him, lifts their own body up in his arms before letting him continue on as they’d planned.

But as they’re limping home, struggling to hold their form together just a moment longer, barely able to drag this dead-weight corpse along— something slips, a thought that they’d never vocalised, never so much as given a hint of in the entire time they’d lived there.

In that entire time, only one name ever sat right with them. The true name.

That name goes with Asriel to the grave.

 

* * *

 

 

A human falls into the underground. They are far from the first, and likely the last. When they land, something changes. Something nearly palpable in the air. Something like a long-dead spirit being drawn from their grave and stapled to the back of someone’s brain.

It’s hard to distinguish at first, just a tiny voice in their head, murmuring narration at every little thing they do, growing louder as time goes on, more sarcastic, more witty, until the human realizes it’s distinct from their own.

They’re stood before a mirror when they finally acknowledge it, staring into their reflection’s eyes like that’s who they’re speaking to. At first, they’re just assessing damage— Toriel may have healed them, but she could not repair the scuffs on their shorts from getting knocked over by a slime monster, the chunk of hair given an impromptu trim by a knight, the dirt on their face from trying to dodge a weird medusa carrot.

“It’s you!” the voice chirps.

The human frowns at their reflection and asks, “Who are you?”

The voice pauses. “Who, me?”

“Do you see someone else for me to address here?”

“Well, you could be talking to the mirror. In fact…”

There’s an odd itch inside their head, flitting back and forth like deft hands rifling through a filing cabinet. They screw up their face, glaring into the mirror and watching how it glares back. “Stop doing that,” they say. “I just want to know your name.”

“Oh, you and me both, pal,” the voice says. The itch stops, though the human feels like it’s more to do with the voice finding what it’s looking for than actually respecting their privacy. “Anyway, you can call me _Frisk.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _well boy howdy how, looks like this thing isn't a oneshot anymore._ i've been wanting to write this second chapter for a while now, but i never got the proper motivation until today. and i do mean literally today, the day i am posting this is the day i wrote most of this chapter. i read a _very_ sad fic that left me emotionally drained yesterday, and felt desperate for something with a happy ending to get my mind off of it. so then i spent several hours with my butt planted in front of my desk and wrote almost 5k words in one go, finishing this chapter at roughly triple the length of the first one.
> 
> so, uh, oops?
> 
> it's got a happy ending and i'm not sad anymore though, so it's all fine. enjoy!

It begins the moment Frisk steps through the door Toriel fought so hard to defend.

They're burnt, battered, bruised, and all manner of other painful adjectives. They want nothing more than to sit down for a moment, but they can't even do _that_ because there's monsters everywhere and they all want to kill them.

And now, to top it all off, there's the flower again.

"Clever," he says. "Veeery clever."

Frisk contemplates how fast they'd have to lunge to grab him around that stem and wring the life out of him. Then they contemplate whether or not their ribs would accept the jostling. The answer turns out to be 'no,' but they still consider it. They've had a _long_ day.

So they just stand, staring balefully as the flower mocks them for thinking no one would remember how they killed Toriel before— not by accident, they would be chagrined to admit. It was born from the heat of frustration, but the knife-stroke that killed her was very deliberate. But they regretted it, turned back time, and it's _fine now._ They just want the flower to shut up and move on.

And when he does, they limp slowly forwards, and the voice pipes up for the first time since they figured out how to spare Toriel.

"Howdy," the voice says, putting on a mocking exaggeration of the flower's accent. "I'm _Flowey._ Flowey the _Flower."_

 

* * *

 

Frisk picks themself out of the snow, limbs shaking from the shocks given by the invisible maze but finally, _finally_ free. That took them _far_ too long, but now it's over.

"Hey, kid, you doing alright down there?" Sans asks, leaning over them with the same cheeky(?) grin as always. "It sure looked like there were some sparks flying in there, don't wanna see you short-circuit already."

Frisk grumbles wordlessly, brushing snow off their shirt and trudging past.

Sans just shrugs. "Well, ice talkin' to ya anyway."

Frisk marches on a little further, shivering, before they speak. "You could've helped," they mutter, not to Sans or even to themself—

"I'm a disembodied voice in your head, human," the voice says, somehow projecting the concept of dispassionately filing their nails down without any actual image. "What do you want me to do? Tell you the lottery numbers from a century ago?"

Frisk bites back a sigh. "Frisk—"

"Oh, that's not my name anymore," the voice says.

"What."

"Yeah, I changed my mind. I'm Sans."

"No."

"Well tough, you don't get to decide."

"You're in _my_ head, I get to lay some ground rules. I'm not calling you Sans."

"Well, the only other option here is Papyrus."

"Or you can give me an _actual, original_ _name."_

"...Papyru."

"Papyru?"

"I'LL ALLOW IT!"

Frisk jumps, whirling around to find a tall skeleton standing behind them with a beaming grin. "Hello, small human!" he says, waving. "I noticed you were taking a while so I came to check on you! Only to find you were concocting _nicknames!_ Is this correct?!"

Frisk blanks. "Uh… yeah!"

Papyrus lights up. "Oh! A _nickname!_ The most cherishable form of friendship! Well, human! Call me 'Papyru' to your heart's content!"

"Y-yeah." _I am going to track down this voice's physical body and I am going to strangle them._

 

* * *

 

Frisk does not like Undyne, they decide. They don't get what MK sees in her. She's a mean jerk who has skewered them seven times in the past fifteen minutes, and also somehow got gum in their hair.

The voice, of course, loves her.

"Hey, hey. Hey. Frisk."

Frisk tumbles forwards, narrowly dodging a line of spears stabbing up through the dock. They don't respond to the voice.

"Frisk. Frisk. You wanna know what my name is now?"

Frisk continues to be silent. Maybe if they ignore them, the voice will go away, and they can focus on not dying for the millionth time.

"I'm Undyne, Frisk."

"Stop kinning my murderer," Frisk blurts out, skidding to a stop at a dead-end— _Fudge, gonna die again._

...Except there's no more spears, and in fact, no sound at all. Even the voice has gone silent.

And then, slowly, like lava bubbling up from a volcano, the voice starts laughing. It echoes around the inside of their head like a bouncy ball made of breathless wheezing and mirth, and Frisk grits their teeth at their headmate's sense of humor and turns around—

Only to come face-to-face with Undyne, armor glinting in the faint light.

The voice just keeps on laughing, even as the world falls out beneath Frisk and they black out.

 

* * *

 

_Here, get up… what's your name?_

_…_

_____, huh? That's a nice name._

 

* * *

 

Frisk drags themself bleeding and half-dead through the door of the laboratory, and collapses on the floor.

"Now, that's just inconsiderate," the voice chides, projecting the impression of kicking Frisk in the head. "If you're going to die, you may as well have the decency of doing it where they don't have to clean it up."

They both know that doesn't matter. When Frisk finishes bleeding out, it's not going to matter where it happens. They'll just load back to wherever they last saved and go on trudging through. The voice just likes to be rude.

They feel dizzy and light-headed, and it's definitely not normal that they've gotten used to the feeling. They grit their teeth, pull themself back to their feet, and lean against the wall to keep themself upright as they go. If they can just find something to heal themself, they'll be fine.

Their vision explodes with light, and it takes them a moment to realize someone just turned on the light. _Ah, shoot. There goes that idea._

"O-oh my god!" someone cries, and Frisk considers just lying down and accepting their fate now. They're _tired._ Why they haven't manually loaded their save already, who knows.

It's out of their control, though, as their legs buckle underneath them again and they fall forward— only to be caught in someone's arms.

"Oh gosh, that's a lot of blood, that is a _lot_ of blood, what the heck," someone says, sounding awfully close to Frisk's ear, and they'd make a snarky quip but they're barely clinging to life as it is.

"O-o-okay, Alphys, they're— they're not dead yet," the mystery person mutters. "Y-you can fix this, j-just…"

Something green flickers through Frisk's eyelids, and immediately the pain is washed away by a warm numbness. They sag in relief, going limp in their savior's arms, and finally allow themself to black out—

And it feels like just a moment later that they find themself blinking up at an unfamiliar ceiling, hair caked to their forehead and feeling a distinct chill from not having their sweater on. Just the thin tank top they'd had on underneath.

They sit up, looking around— they're in some kind of workshop, lying on a bed crammed haphazardly into the corner like it was only put there an hour ago in an emergency. There's a table covered in tools, several unusual devices scattered around, a giant poster of a cat girl— but no sweater.

"Oh, you're awake," the voice says. "So here's a fun fact, turns out while you're taking a nap I'm still fully awake. So I've been staring at the back of your eyelids for god knows how long."

Frisk glares at their reflection in a nearby piece of metal. "Well, if so, can you tell me what just happened?"

"Turns out there's someone who _isn't_ trying to murder you."

"Yes, I gathered that."

"Also, I changed my name. I'm Alphys now!"

"...That's the first legitimate, original name you've given me, and I'm very suspicious of it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Frisk rubs at the bridge of their nose. "Look—"

"O-oh, you're awake!" someone says, and Frisk lifts their head to see a yellow lizard in a lab coat hurrying over, holding a blue and purple bundle. _Oh, that'd do it._ "I-I'm sorry I took your sweater, i-i-it was just so torn up and bloody there was no way you could keep wearing it like that… b-but I tried to fix it!"

She unfurls the sweater, holding it up for Frisk to see. It's covered in brand new patches, mercifully in colors not too far off from the originals, but also… it's cleaner than Frisk has ever seen it. They take it from her, feeling the fabric, and it's so soft and fluffy.

"O-o-oh gosh, are you crying?" the lizard asks, and Frisk rubs at their eyes to find that yeah, they are. "I-I-I'm sorry I couldn't salvage it any better, I-I'm sure I have some old shirts around if you'd rather…"

Frisk shakes their head quickly. "No," they say, hugging their sweater close. "This is perfect."

"O-okay?" the lizard says. "U-um, but before you put that on, you… might want to t-t-take a shower. I wasn't gonna clean you myself since you were, asleep, and all that, but you are kinda…" She gestures vaguely at their entire body, which Frisk observes kind of _is_ covered in their own blood still.

"Thank you," they say, hopping off the bed. "I'd like that."

"R-right, this w-way!" the lizard says, leading the way out of the workshop.

"Oh," Frisk says, pausing at the door. "What's your name?"

The lizard blinks, looking back at them, and then she lights up red. "O-o-o-oh r-right, I-I-I never i-introduced myself! I-I-I'm D-Doctor Alphys."

Frisk's face goes totally blank, and in the back of their head, the voice breaks out into laughter again.

 

* * *

 

Frisk is feeling good. Their clothes are clean, their injuries are healed, they've taken a shower— sure, there's a killer robot trying to take their soul, and an enigmatic voice antagonizing them every step of the way, but things are looking up.

It sure would be nice if they could keep a straight face through some of the things the voice has to say, though. They're on _live television,_ they can't just go breaking into laughter over nothing!

"Dude's _really_ rocking that dress, though," the voice says as Mettaton twirls around Frisk with far more grace than any rectangular robot has any right displaying. "Do you think I could pull it off?"

_I don't even know what you look like,_ Frisk thinks, letting Mettaton take them by the hand and spin them around— he's singing some song, but they can't really hear it over the chatterbox in their brain.

"...No, it'd have to be green," the voice muses. "And I'd accessorize with some of those flowers. Maybe mix in a tux for ultimate gender stuff."

"That _does_ sound nice," Frisk mutters, then realizes their mistake as Mettaton lets out a robotic gasp. _Fuck. Fuck. Shit. What was he saying?_

"Why, I do believe my one true love is a masochist!" the robot declares, pulling out a remote control. "Well, don't let me stop you! To the dungeon it is!"

He presses the single comically large button, and the ground opens under Frisk— he must have taken advantage of the musical number to position them over the trap door, damnit, _damnit all—_ and they fall into the darkness.

And then they land, the ground mercifully soft to the point where it only jarrs their ribs a little bit. They pick themself back up and look around, feeling their heart sink at the sight of a complex array of colored tiles covering the path to their exit. They remember how much hell it gave them back in Snowdin, and this one's even _longer._

"I'm going to die."

"You are _so_ going to die," the voice agrees.

"Correct!" Mettaton announces from up above. "The human is going to die… unless! They can navigate the _dastardly colored tile maze_ within thirty seconds!"

"Thirty seconds?!" Frisk cries. "There wasn't any time limit on the _other_ tile maze!"

"Well, how else are we supposed to up the stakes?" Mettaton asks, pulling out a timer. With a click of his fingers, it starts ticking down. "Clock's ticking, darling!"

Frisk screams and starts running.

 

* * *

 

Frisk walks into the Core's exit, rewrapping their bandage for the dozenth time, and somehow isn't surprised to see Mettaton standing there. They still pause in the doorway, staring at the robot as he stares back.

"...Oh, I just realized I'm still Alphys," the voice says, and Frisk groans. "So, yeah, I'm MTT now."

Frisk is about to whisper something back when Mettaton's face flickers oddly. Being a robot, it's kind of impossible to read his face— or lack thereof— but there's still a distinct air of amusement to his voice when he says— "Oh, are you promoting my brand?"

Frisk freezes. The voice freezes too, as much as a disembodied voice can. "You— huh— what?" The voice says, and Frisk thinks that just about summarizes their emotions right now. _They_ didn't say anything, did they?

"Your little friend," Mettaton says clapping his hands to either side of his… face. "Naming their very own self after little old me! Why, I'm so flattered I could _cry,_ if only I had, you know, tear ducts."

"...You can _hear them too?!"_ Frisk asks, stepping forward with wide eyes. "I'm not just going crazy? You can _hear_ them?"

"Sure can!" Mettaton says.

The voice finally breaks from their frantic sputtering to scream. "You could _hear me THE ENTIRE TIME?!"_

Mettaton leans back a little from the volume, which gives Frisk even _more_ certainty he's not just making this up. "That's correct, sweetheart! You have _excellent_ taste in formalwear, incidentally. Tuxedo dresses are the way of the future."

"...I can't believe this," the voice says, something unfamiliar in their voice and Frisk realizes why— there's no scorn, or mockery, or anything cruel in the voice. It's _hope._ "You can… it's not just..."

Mettaton clears his nonexistent throat with a robotic cough. "Anyway, this is all very touching, but we've got a show to get to— killer robot and all that, you know?"

Something slams behind Frisk, and they whirl around to find the door covered by a thick metal blast door. "Figures."

"It certainly does figure!" Mettaton declares, lights clicking on all around them. "This was _such_ a nice talk, but I'm afraid it ends here!"

 

* * *

 

"You can't do it," the voice says, the first thing they've said since Alphys told them how to exit the barrier. Sans just left them, after a speech about how good of a person they are. "You can't kill Asgore."

Frisk ducks their head, hand tightening around the locket they've got around their neck. They're not sure why they decided to put it on when they found it. "I know, he's some all-powerful king—"

"No," the voice says forcefully. "That's not what I mean. Of course you _can_ kill him, you're _human._ But if you so much as _think_ about touching a single hair on his head— I will stop you."

"How?" Frisk asks, still walking. "You're just a voice."

"I'll find a way."

Frisk doesn't reply. They keep walking, lifting their head again to read a sign up ahead. They've found the throne room.

There's another path, though, leading past it, and they can't help but go exploring there instead— anything to delay the inevitable. So they keep walking, take a turn, wander down a long flight of stairs. The voice has nothing to say.

They reach the bottom, turn another corner, and then feel their heart stop. There's a line of coffins, all marked with a different color heart, all far too small to lay any adult inside them. There's a small plaque below each heart too, though the only one lit well enough to see is the one right by the stairs. Frisk leans in to see it.

"...It's empty," the voice comments, and Frisk's eyes go wide.

There's nothing carved into that space, simply a blank square of metal— and Frisk looks around wildly, eyes wide to take in the other plaques and they can see now they're all marked with names— Skye, Ben, Adrien, more names too distant to read but still visibly there, but _nothing_ on this coffin, and when they look back to confirm again they realize the heart above is painted red, red like their soul—

The coffin lid comes off far more easily than Frisk expected, nearly flying across the room from the force they use, and they feel bile rise in their throat as they see what's inside— nothing at all, not even some ancient skeleton to lay their fears to rest.

The voice says something, but Frisk doesn't hear it over the blood pounding in their ears as they _run._

 

* * *

 

The king kneels before Frisk, head bowed, hand pressed over the wound carved deep in his chest. He's telling them to kill him. The voice stopped protesting long ago.

"Leave this wretched place," Asgore says. Isn't that a thought? They can be free. Their life has been nothing but hell since they fell down here, they want nothing more than to leave. Finally, someone _gets_ it.

...And yet, looking at this massive monster bowing before them, head bowed as if before an executioner, they feel their grip slacken around the knife. Do they want freedom so badly that they'd kill a man for it? Is _that_ who they are?

One last human soul, versus all of monsterkind. They've already got the coffin, marked with their soul and ready to be engraved with their name. All that's missing is the body.

Frisk turns their head away, dropping the knife. Asgore looks up at the sound of it clattering to the floor, confusion in his eyes. "...You… would spare even a murderer like me…?"

Frisk grits their teeth. _That's not it,_ they want to say, but they don't. Whatever returns that spark of hope to his eyes—

Vines shift in the corner of their vision, and before either of them can react a ring of pellets flickers into being around Asgore. They crash into his body, scattering him into dust, and then one last pellet destroys his soul. Flowey sprouts from behind where the king just stood, grinning.

"What an _idiot,"_ he says, vines crashing into the jars containing all the other human souls, and the world goes whi

 

* * *

 

"...Oh, you're back."

That's not the welcome Frisk expected when they reloaded their save, but they'll take what they can get. "Miss me?"

"Hardly," the voice says. "You couldn't take me through the barrier with you, so I was back in my grave taking a well-deserved nap. The dirt is _really_ scenic this time of year, you know."

"So you _are_ a ghost," Frisk says, folding their hands behind their back as they head back the way they came.

"I guess," the voice says. "I did die and all."

"So, are you like Napstablook?"

The voice laughs. "I wish, that'd mean I'm any kind of monster. No, I was human in life."

Frisk hums thoughtfully. "Were you one of the people Asgore killed?"

_"No,"_ the voice snaps. "Asgore had nothing to do with it."

"Alright, okay," Frisk says quickly. "Sorry I asked."

"Where are you going, anyway?"

Frisk grins a little. "Well, Flowey gave me a tip, so I was thinking I'd go pay Alphys a visit. She was just so nice, y'know?"

 

* * *

 

"'She was just so nice, y'know?'" the voice echoes mockingly. "How's _this_ for nice, huh?"

Frisk bites back a sigh as they dance between the flickering bullets thrown at them by the weird glitchy monstrosity before them, tapping at their phone. "We don't know the context here, she could be trying to stop these things just as much as us."

"Oh, sure, yeah," the voice deadpans. The phone screeches with noise, and they perk up a little. "Oh, that's my name now."

"The _static?"_

"Sure! Ksksksrrhrsch, that's my name now."

"How do you even spell that?!"

The voice makes an 'I-dunno' noise, and Frisk doesn't bother concealing their next sigh as they duck under another attack.

 

* * *

 

Frisk scans this room as they walk in, eyes sharp for anything that might turn into a weird blob monster. The most suspicious thing they can see are some tapes on one of the shelves with some sticky residue coating them, but when Frisk touches them, nothing happens. So they just sigh and look around for something else.

There's another of Alphys's journal entries up on a screen in the corner, and it directs Frisk's attention to a small stack of tapes sitting in front of the old television. Going by the labels, Frisk guesses they're homemade.

The voice is oddly quiet as Frisk slots the first one in and watches closely.

It's a little surreal, finally having confirmation that Toriel and Asgore used to be together. They _suspected,_ numerous little things adding up into a quiet question, but they didn't think they'd be right.

As the pitch black video ends and Frisk prepares to slot the next one in, the voice speaks. "Wait—"

Frisk stops. "What is it?"

"...Nevermind," the voice says. "I can't stop you."

Frisk frowns, but finishes inserting the tape and hits play.

_"Howdy, Pearl!"_ someone says, voice tinny and distant. _"Do your creepy face!"_

There's a yell, a scream, the rustling sound of the camera getting jostled around. There's laughter, and something about it seems familiar, but it's quickly drowned out by the camera operator realizing they left the lens cap on. And then the video ends.

The voice remains silent even as they fit the next one in.

_"Howdy, Bluejay! Smile for the camera!"_

Frisk frowns. It's a different name, but that's the same person— is there someone else here?

_"Ha! This time I got you! This time I left the lens cap on on purpose!"_

_No, they've just got a different name._ This time, when the other person laughs, it rings loud and clear and almost identical to every single time Frisk has gotten hurt— but there's no malice to it, just an honest, light-hearted laugh.

The voice talks, but it's not in their head. They sound tinny and distant, just like the person they're talking to in the video. It takes a moment for Frisk to realize the video ended, and they're just staring at a silent screen.

"...Were you—" they start, but the voice cuts them off.

"Just watch the damn videos," the voice says.

Frisk nods, retrieving the tape and slotting in the next one. And then the next, and then the final one, and with each blank video they feel the pit in their stomach grow. When it all ends, with the voice's family pleading for them to wake up, Frisk can't find it in them to stand back up just yet.

"You killed yourself," Frisk says.

"Fuck, dude, I sure did," the voice says, tone flippant, but not enough to hide the steel beneath. "Got anything else, Sherlock?"

"That person— Asriel, your whole family, they called you different names." Frisk fusses with the hem of their shirt. "You're not just being stubborn with me, are you? You don't _have_ a name."

The voice is silent.

"Why didn't you just pick one and stick with it?"

"It was just a joke," the voice says, cracking a little. "I wanted to see how patient they'd be with me. Turns out, the answer is 'very.'"

"Wasn't there one you liked more?"

The voice is silent again, and no matter what Frisk says after that, they don't speak again. And so they leave it, leave the topic, leave the pile of old homemade tapes behind in the old lab, and do not speak of it again.

 

* * *

 

The phone rings. It's a voice Frisk has never heard before.

"Chara," the voice on the phone says, and that's not a name Frisk recognizes. "Are you there?"

Frisk opens their mouth, but their throat closes up, not letting them say a word. It's strange, since they feel perfectly fine— but then, they realize, the voice inside their head is practically _screaming_ into the abyss. So maybe they're not fine.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it? But you've done well." The elevator lurches. "Thanks to you, everything has fallen into place." It lurches again, and Frisk nearly loses their footing this time, having to catch themself on the railing. Still, they cannot speak.

"...See you soon."

 

* * *

 

There's a child standing in front of them, wearing a striped shirt. They've got long, fluffy ears, and in fact, they are completely covered in white fur.

There is also a child in their head, not saying anything, but making their presence _very_ known by the crashing waves of every emotion known to man all mixing together and making a mess of Frisk's mind.

The child standing in front of them calls them Chara. That's not Frisk's name. There's another wave in their head whenever he says that name, though, so Frisk guesses it means something to the voice.

With a flash, the goat child is no longer a child, but a towering figure in flowing robes and long, curling horns. There's another wave of emotion. Frisk _really_ wishes the voice would stop doing that, it's making it hard to focus.

Asriel keeps talking, keeps calling Frisk by the wrong name, and so they sigh, comb a hand through their hair, and get to dodging. _Might as well play along._

 

* * *

 

"Frisk!"

Frisk is floating in an endless, empty abyss. Their only companions are the voice in their head and the obnoxious god who won't stop killing them. They are _so_ tired.

"You can't seriously be giving up now," the voice says.

Frisk is too tired to move. Talking requires moving. Ergo, they're not going to reply.

"No," the voice says. "Absolutely not. You've gotten this far, you are _not_ doing this now. Not after all we've worked for."

Everything _I've_ worked for, Frisk would say, if they felt up to it. The voice was no help.

"Fine, sure, whatever makes you happy," the voice says. "Everything _you've_ worked for. Every single person who's beaten you up, killed you, made you hurt— you made them your friend, because that's what you _do,_ you're a ray of goddamn sunshine on this blighted Earth. So I swear to whatever god is out there apart from my brother, you are _not_ stopping here, Frisk."

Frisk groans, cracking one eye open just a little. That doesn't take too much effort, at least. There's something hovering before them, and as they open their eyes wider, they recognize it as a face. A _human_ face.

The face breaks into a grin as Frisk stares at them. "There you are," they say, with the voice of _the_ voice, the voice that's been tormenting them all along. "About time."

Frisk finally move to look around, eyes wide, at the empty abyss they're in— and it's _empty,_ they're just now realizing Asriel stopped attacking long ago, because he's _gone._ It takes them a moment to find their words. "Where are we?"

"Dunno," the voice says, taking Frisk's hand and pulling them upright like themself. "Got some theories, though. This might be inside your soul."

"Why's that?"

The voice grins. "I'm here, am I not? It's either that or inside your brain, which strikes me as much less likely."

"Right," Frisk says, looking them over. They're just a little taller than Frisk with pale skin, auburn hair cut in a bob, and a green and yellow sweater. There's a distinct reddish flush to their face, like they've been out in the cold, but it's perfectly warm in… wherever they are. Frisk finds it hard to believe that they're just standing inside their own soul. "So… what do we do?"

"Well, this strikes me as a good time to figure out what we _can_ do," the voice says, sitting in midair and propping their chin on their hands. "'Cause fighting won't work, mercy won't work, so we need something more creative."

Frisk nods, staying standing and hugging their arms to their chest. "So… any ideas?"

The voice hums, glancing around in thought, then shrugs. "Can you reach your save file?"

Frisk closes their eyes and reaches. Nothing happens. They reach again. Nothing happens.

They open their eyes again and give the voice an apologetic look. The voice doesn't look surprised. "Seems that's off the table," they say, smushing their face in further. "But maybe, with what power you've got left, you could save something else?"

Frisk frowns. "What does _that_ mean?"

The voice shrugs. "I dunno, I just thought it sounded cool. It is not _my_ job to fight this battle."

"You're the _worst,"_ Frisk groans into their hands.

"But hey, I managed to drag you in here," Chara says. "Maybe you could find some way to do the same to someone else?"

Frisk pauses. "...Now _that's_ an idea."

"Is it?"

"I did it with the human souls, didn't I?" Frisk asks, excitement growing inside them. "I asked them for help, and they were able to stop Flowey from the inside. I bet I can do it again!"

"Well, if you think it'll work, more power to you," the voice says, kicking back and resting their hands behind their head. "I was just spitballing."

"I'm gonna try it!" Frisk says, stepping back. "It can't be too hard!"

"Heck yeah, go get him," the voice says, giving them a thumbs up. "I'll be watching."

Frisk shuts their eyes again, and when they open them, they're back in reality, staring god in the face— and they're ready, now.

They call someone's name, and somewhere within Asriel's soul, there's an answer.

 

* * *

 

"I know. You're not actually Chara, are you?"

Frisk shakes their head. In their head, the voice projects a ripple of sadness.

"What _is_ your name?"

Frisk tells him.

"...That's a nice name."

Another rush of sadness. It's so hard to keep their face calm, feeling the voice's grief spill over into their own.

But they manage. It's not their place to cry here.

 

* * *

 

"...Take me back to my grave," the voice says, before Frisk can step out beyond the freshly-broken barrier. "I want to see the flowers again."

It's an odd request, but one Frisk is willing to humor. It's not a long walk, after all, with a couple boat rides and no one trying to skewer them. When they step back into that room where they fell, some part of them isn't surprised to see who's sitting there, knelt in the flowers.

"Hey," they say softly, as they sit down next to Asriel.

He laughs a little, not looking up. "I should've figured you would find me here. They told you, didn't they?"

Frisk remains silent.

"It's not like you hid it very well," he says, a small smile creeping onto his face. "I was following you, you know. The entire time. You kept talking to the voice in your head, and there's not a whole lot of people who like to change their name at the drop of a hat."

The voice says something that could never be printed in a reputable newspaper. Frisk repeats it with a blank face and bland tone of voice. Asriel laughs again.

"You kept calling them Chara, though," Frisk says. "Why's that?"

"That was the first name I used," Chara says, and Asriel jerks a little, ears flicking. "When I told Asriel my name, he heard it wrong. Or, well… my deadname. What I went by before I fell down. The one time mumbling helped me."

"Chara?" Asriel asks, looking around. "I can hear you. Don't be so hard on yourself."

The voice groans. "Oh, great. Is it 'cause you're super mega dead? The ghosts could hear me."

"I'm not _that_ dead," Asriel protests. Frisk reaches out a hand and touches his arm, then pulls back to leave a trail of shining dust slowly settling in the air. Asriel makes a face. "Okay, maybe a little dead."

"Well, we can form a club," the voice proclaims.

"I have a question," Frisk says. "I'm tired of you not having a name. Can you _please_ just go with Chara?"

"No."

_"Why?"_

"Because I hate you."

"Chara!" Asriel whines. "Be nice! We both already know you like it!"

"When did I ever say _that?"_

"You didn't, but I could _feel_ it." Asriel puts his hand over his chest. "When I had your soul. That was your last thought. That you wish you'd just stuck with Chara."

"...That's dumb," Chara says, audibly choked up. "You're dumb. Shut up."

Frisk crosses their arms. "Well tough luck, you're stuck with it now. No more names for you, buster."

"You're dumb and I hate both of you," Chara says, starting to cry. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Everything," Frisk says.

Chara sobs a little, and Asriel leans in to hug Frisk. Frisk's arms move outside of their volition, hugging him back, and soon the only sound is Chara breaking down, inaudible to anyone but the two children sitting together.

Asriel crumbles in Frisk's arms, face buried in the crook of their neck. For a long time, they just sit their, hands folded in their dust-covered lap. Chara stopped crying a while ago. They're not sure what they're waiting for.

Then, the foliage shifts, and with a gasp a large flower bursts from the ground. "There we go," Flowey says, shaking dirt from his petals. He looks up and jerks back a little when he sees Frisk. "Geez, you're still sitting there? Go take a _bath,_ you look gross!"

"Well sorry for not wanting to just wash off the remains of my weird head-voice's dead sibling," Frisk snaps back.

"Well that dead sibling is _me_ and I'm telling you to go wash that darn dust down the drain! You look like a murderer!"

Chara laughs, and Frisk feels a small smile creep onto their face despite themself.

Flowey looks much less amused. "Yeah, sure, laugh it up."

Chara pauses. "You can still hear me?"

"Sure can," Flowey says. "Now go take a bath before I dunk you in the nearest river!"

"Alright, alright," Frisk says, getting up. They take a couple steps away before stopping and looking back at him. "Aren't you gonna come?"

Flowey makes a face. "I'm not gonna watch you take a bath, Frisk, that's gross."

"I meant _after_ that," Frisk says. "Aren't you going to come with everyone back to the surface?"

Flowey pauses. "...Why should I?" he asks, looking away. "'S not like I'll care about any of them."

"Not even me?" Chara asks.

"...Maybe you," Flowey admits. "I'll think about it. Just _go_ already."

So Frisk hurries away, seeking out the bathroom in Toriel's home and taking a quick shower to get the dust off. They rinse their sweater off too, wring it out as best they can, then sling it over their shoulder as they take off back to the grave.

There's no one there. They frown, call out, but get no reply. And so, with a growing sense of unease, they leave the Ruins, heading back to the exit.

But Flowey never shows up.

 

* * *

 

They live with Toriel now, up on the surface. It took a while for everyone to settle in— and honestly, they're _still_ not finished. There's a lot to do, and as the ambassador between humans and monsters, Frisk is always busy.

Not right now, though. Right now, they're settling into bed, hugging a teddy bear close to their chest. Chara made fun of them for it the first time, but by now, they're just used to it. They set their phone by their head, running a podcast Chara likes so they're not constantly bored, and prepare to drop off.

And then there's a tap at their window.

They ignore it at first, figuring it's just a curious bird, but it keeps sounding. Finally, with some frustration, they sit up and squint through the darkness for the source. Nothing seems immediately obvious, though it's hard to see...

"Did we always keep a flower on that window?" Chara asks.

Frisk's eyes widen. "No, we did not," they say, pausing the podcast and climbing out of bed to pull the window open.

"There you are!" Flowey chirps, leaning in through the opening. He looks around Frisk's bedroom with an appreciative whistle. "Wow, this is some place you've got, huh?"

"...This is the second floor," Frisk says.

"It sure is!"

"How are you up here?"

Flowey gives them a dry look. "Vines, dumbass. Move over."

Frisk obliges and Flowey heaves past, vines curling and shifting to carry him in— and then, behind him, a large flowerpot filled with dirt, which he quickly retracts all the vines into. He must see the weird look Frisk gives him, because he fires back a small glare. "Toriel gets mad whenever I break through the floorboards."

"R-Right," Frisk says.

Chara, on the other hand, is much more to-the-point. "What are you doing here? We were worried! You took way too much time."

"Well, I wasn't planning on it at first," Flowey explains, using a couple vines to shift the pot over a little. "But I got bored. So now I'm here to bother you."

"Alright then," Frisk says. They cross their arms, look down at the ground, then shrug. "Well, if that's all, I'm going back to bed."

"What!" Flowey protests, as Frisk climbs back under the covers. "How am I supposed to bother you if you're asleep!"

"Bother Chara," Frisk says, unpausing the podcast again and letting their head hit the pillow.

"I don't _want_ to bother Chara, I want..." Flowey trails off. "...What's that?"

"Podcast," Chara says. "It's sort of like a radio show. This one's pretty old, but I like it."

Frisk hears the shuffling scrape of Flowey moving closer. "Sounds weird and boring."

Chara makes a thoughtful noise. "Interesting enough to keep me sane while this nerd sleeps."

They both fall silent, leaving the podcast the only sound in the room. The man on the radio waxes poetic about time, and death, and life, and everything. And then, as Frisk finally drops off, he bids them all goodnight.

"Goodnight, Flowey," Chara says, to the only person who can hear them right now.

Flowey rolls his eyes, unseen to anyone, but he still replies. "Goodnight."


End file.
